King of the Castle
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Michael Wimble looked a little brighter, and then his eyes fell upon the bottle, which he shook as the doctor had shaken it, took out the cork, applied a finger to it, and tasted in the same way, quickly spitting it out as he became aware of the sharp taste.
“What did he say: chloral? Don’t take any of it. No, I sha’n’t do that.”
Wimble suddenly became thoughtful and dreamy as he replaced the cork, and he seemed to see the bright ray of light once more on the dry patch of sand beyond where the tide had reached.
Then he thought about Gartram’s death by chloral.
“Might have been the same bottle,” he said thoughtfully; “took what he wanted, and then threw it out of the window.”
He looked at the tiny drop in the bottom, turned it over and over, and his thoughts seemed to run riot in his brain, till he grew confused at their number. But after a time he followed the one theme again.
“What a piece of evidence to have brought up at the inquest. How important a witness I should have been. But why should he have thrown the bottle out of the window? He didn’t poison himself. He wasn’t the man to do that. Thousands upon thousands of money. Everything he could wish for. Regular king of the place. He wouldn’t do that – he couldn’t.”
Wimble stood with his brow wrinkled up, and then all at once, as if startled by the suddenness of a thought, he dropped the bottle on the oilcloth and drew back, gazing at it in a horrified way, his eyes dilating, and the white showing all round.
“Somebody must have given it to him.”
“No, no. They wouldn’t do that; it would be murder. No one would try to murder him.”
He passed his hand over his forehead, and drew it away quite wet.
“His money!” he half whispered, as the thought seemed to grow and grow. “They say he kept thousands up there. Or some one who hated him, as lots of people did.”
Wimble dropped into his shaving chair, and sat thinking of the numbers of workpeople who had quarrelled with Gartram and spoken threateningly; but he did not feel that it was possible for any one of these to have done such a deed.
“Some one who hated him – some one who wanted to get rid of him – some one who, who – no, no, no, it’s too horrible to think about. I wouldn’t know if I could.”
He lifted the little bottle between his finger and thumb, and drew back with his arm extended to the utmost to hurl the little vessel across the road, and right out toward the sea.
But he checked himself thoughtfully, drew back, and went across his shop to the side. Here he stood, bottle in hand, thinking deeply, before slowly opening the drawer and placing it in a corner.
“It would be very valuable,” he said softly, “if that was the bottle some one used to poison the old man; and if it was, why, I haven’t got a specimen in my museum that would attract people half so much. ‘The Danmouth murder; the bottle that held the poison,’ Why, they’d come in hundreds to see it.”
He took the phial out again, for it seemed to have a strange fascination for him, and after staring at it till his hands grew moist, he took out a piece of white paper, carefully rolled it therein, and placed it in another drawer, which he had to unlock, and fastened afterwards with the greatest care.
“That bottle’s worth at least a hundred pound,” he said huskily, as he put the key in his pocket. “It will be quite a little fortune to me.
“Somebody who hated him – somebody who wanted him out of the way,” he said, as he tapped his teeth with the key. “No, I can’t think, and won’t try any more. I’m not a detective, and I don’t want to know.
“Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and who wanted him out of the way.”
In spite of his determination not to think any more of the subject, it came back persistently, and at last, to clear his brain and drive away the thoughts, he took down his hat, and determined to let the museum take care of itself for an hour, while he walked down along the beach.
He knew, as he came to this determination, that he would go straight down beneath the Fort, and look at the spot where he found the bottle; but, all the same, he felt that he must go, and, putting on his hat, he took the key out from inside of the door, and standing just inside the shop, began to put the key into the outer portion of the lock, as the thought came again more strongly than ever —
“Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and wanted him out of the way.”
He was in the act of closing his door as a quick step came along the path, and as the door closed, a voice said to some one —
“How do, Edward?” and the speaker passed on with creel on back and salmon rod over his shoulder.
Wimble darted back into the museum, shut the door, and stood trembling in the middle of the place.
“Oh!” he said, in a hoarse whisper, as the great drops stood out upon his brow. “What did Brime say?”
He shivered, and his voice dropped into a whisper.
“Mr Chris Lisle! He was there that night!”
Volume Three – Chapter Five.
Mr Wimble is in Doubt
“Want lodgings, sir?” said Reuben Brime taking his short black pipe from his lips, and gazing straight out to sea, as if he thought there was plenty of room for a good long rest out there. Then straightening himself from having a good, thoughtful lean on the cliff rail, where he had been having his evening’s idle after the day’s work done, he turned, and, looking thoughtfully at a youngish man in tweeds, as if he were a plant not growing quite so satisfactorily as could be wished, he said again, in a tone of mild inquiry, – “Lodgings?”
“Yes, lodgings,” said the new-comer shortly.
“Well, I was trying to think of some, sir; and I could have told you of the very thing if something as I had in hand had come up – I mean off.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir,” said the gardener thoughtfully. “I don’t mind who knows it. I’d got as nice a little cottage in my eye as any man would wish to have there, the money to buy all the furniture, as much more as was wanted, theirs being very old; and I could have said to you, ‘There’s a bedroom and a setten’-room, and the best of attendance.’”
“But it is not in hand, eh?”
“In hand, sir? No, sir; nothing like in hand.”
“How’s that?”
“Ah, well, I don’t care who knows it now, sir. Mebbe if she heard how it’s talked about, and the man’s disappointment, she may get better, and alter her mind.”
“She? The lady?”
“Yes, sir; the lady, as I may say I’d engaged myself to; but she’s took bad and strange, and I suppose it’s all off.”
“Ah, well, I’m sorry to hear that,” said the stranger, looking amused, and as if he thought the man he addressed was a little wanting in brains.
“Thank you, sir, kindly. Lodgings? – no. You see this isn’t a seaside place.”
“Then what do you call it?” said the stranger.
“Call it, sir? Well, we calls it Danmouth, or, mostly, Dan’orth, because you see it’s shorter, and more like one word.”
“Oh, yes, I know the name; but what do you call it if it isn’t a seaside place?”
“I calls it a port, sir, and as good a little port as there is anywheres about this coast. Dinton and Bartoe and Minxton’s seaside places, with lots of visitors and bathing machines, and bands and Punch and Judies. Lodgings, eh? Let me see. Lodgings for a gentleman? What do you say to the Harbour Inn? They’ve got as good a drop of beer there as a man could wish to drink.”
“No, no, I don’t want to be at a public house. I’m here for a fortnight’s fishing, and I want nice, comfortable apartments.”
“And you want comfortable apartments?” said Brime respectfully, as he rubbed his sunburned face with the stem of his pipe. “Fishing, eh? You mean pottering about with a rod and line; not going with a boat and nets?”
“Quite right.”
“I’ve got it,” said the gardener. “Mrs Sarson; she lets lodgings. Stop a moment. I’ll take you on to the museum.”
“Museum! Hang it all, man, I’m not a specimen.”
Brime laughed for the first time for a month.
“No, sir, you don’t look as if you was stuffed. I was going to take you to our barber’s. He knows everything; and he’ll tell us whether Mrs Sarson can take you in.”
“Is it far – the museum?”
“Only yonder. Just where you see that man looking out of the door.”
“Ah, yes,” said the stranger sharply. “Yours seems a busy place.”
“Tidy, sir, tidy.”
“Whose castle’s that?”
“Mr Gartram’s, sir. Leastwise it was. He’s gone.”
“Oh! Dead?”
“Yes, sir. The hardest and the best master as ever was. Some on us’ll miss him, I expect.”
“Curious kind of master, my lad, and likely to be missed. Gartram? Oh, yes, I know; the stone quarry man. Mr Trevithick, in our town, has to do with his affairs.”
“If you talked all night, sir, you couldn’t say a truer word than that. Mr Trevithick, sir, very big man, lawyer.”
“Yes; they call him Jumbo our way.”
Kck!
Brime burst out into a monosyllabic half laugh, and then stopped short as Wimble was drawing back into his den to let them pass.
“Here, Mr Wimble, sir, this gent wants to ask something about Mrs Sarson.”
“Eh! Yes!” said the barber sharply; and the suspicious look which had been gathering of late in his face grew more intense. “Step in, sir, pray,” he added eagerly.
“Oh, that’s not worth while now,” said the stranger, passing his hand over his chin. “Give you a look in to-morrow. My friend here thought you could tell me about Mrs Sarson’s lodgings.”
“Yes,” said Brime; “and – of course, this gent wants to go fishing, and Mr Lisle’s always fishing.”
“Mr Lisle?” said the stranger. “Christopher Lisle?”
“That’s the man, sir,” said the barber sharply. “You know anything about him, sir?”
“Only that he has a good heavy account with our bank.”
Wimble looked sharply at the stranger, with his head on one side, and more than one eager question upon his lips. But the new-comer felt that he had made a slip by talking too freely, and prevented him by asking a question himself.
“Do you think Mrs Sarson could accommodate me?”
“No, sir,” said Wimble, looking at him searchingly. “No: she has no room, I am sure. Take the gentleman up to Mrs Lampton’s at the top of the cliff road. I daresay she could accommodate him.”
“Why, of course,” said Brime; “the very place. I never thought of that.”
“No, Mr Brime,” said Wimble patronisingly, as he looked longingly at the visitor with cross-examination in his breast. “Say I recommended the gentleman.”
“All right. Come along, sir, I’ll show you; and if you want a few worms for fishing, I’m your man.”
“Worms?” said the visitor, laughing. “I always use flies.”
“Most gents do, sir. Mr Chris Lisle does. But the way to get hold of a good fish in a river is with a whacking great worm.”
“Do you know Mr Lisle?”
“Know him? Poor young man, yes.”
“Poor? I don’t call a gentleman who lately came in for a big fortune poor.”
“Big fortune, sir? Mr Chris Lisle come in for a big fortune, sir? Hurrah! Our young lady will be glad.”
The visitor was ready to pull himself up again sharp, for this was another mistake.
Brime stopped, smiling, at a pretty cottage, where fuchsias and hydrangeas were blooming side by side with myrtles, and was going off, when the visitor offered him a shilling for his trouble.
“Thankye, sir, and I hope you’ll be comfortable,” said the gardener, descending the chief path. – “Well, I am glad. Come in for a large fortune. Now, if I were him, I’d just send Mr Glyddyr to the right about, and get the business settled as soon as it seemed decent after master’s death. He is a good sort, is Mr Lisle, and he’s fond enough of her. Why, they’ll be married now, and keep up the old place just as it is; and if I speak when we want more help, he isn’t the gent to tell a hard-working man to get up a bit earlier and work a bit later. Not he. He made a friend of me when he gave me that half-sov’rin, and I made a friend of him when I caught him. My, what a lark it was when I dropped on to him, and he thought it was the governor! I know he did.”
Reuben Brime smiled as he had not smiled for days, and a minute or two later he grinned outright. From his point of vantage, high up the cliff side, he could see to the mouth of the glen, and there, to his intense delight, he could just make out two figures in deep mourning, one tall and graceful, and the other short, and her head low down between her shoulders, walking away from him in the distance, and, not far behind, a sturdy-looking man in light brown tweeds, with a fishing creel slung at his back, and a rod over his shoulder, trying hard to overtake the pair in front.
“Wouldn’t give much for Mr Glyddyr’s chance,” thought Brime, as he watched the trio out of sight. “Been an awfully cloudy time, but the sun’s coming strong now, and things’ll grow. What a fellow I am to give up because she was a bit off. Friends with the new guv’nor means friends with the new missus, and as Sarah about worships her, and’ll do what she tells her, why, it’ll come right in the end.”
He walked on, building castles as he went, and in the height of his elation he said, half aloud —
“It’s only six pounds a year, and I could let it till she said yes. Hang me if I don’t take the cottage after all.”
“Well, Mr Brime,” said a voice at his elbow, “did Mrs Lampton take the gentleman in?”
“Eh? Oh, I don’t know, as I didn’t stop. But she’d be sure to.”
“Oh, yes, it will be all right,” said Wimble. “But you’ll come in, Mr Brime?”
“No. I think I’ll get back now, and finish my pipe by the cliff.”
“With a beard like that, sir? Better have it off.”
“Eh? No, it isn’t shaving day.”
“Your beard grows wonderfully fast, Mr Brime, believe me, sir. I wonder at a young man like you being so careless of his personal appearance. You’ll be wanting to marry some day, sir, and there’s nothing goes further with the ladies than seeing a man clean-shaved.”
It was not quite a random shot, for Wimble had wheedled out a little respecting the gardener’s future, and he had only to draw back with a smile for the man to follow him in, passing his hand thoughtfully over his chin, wondering whether it had anything to do with the very severe rebuff he had more than once received.
Once more in the chair, tied up in the cloth, and with his face lathered, he was at Wimble’s mercy; and as the razor played about his nose and chin, giving a scrape here and a scrape there, the barber cross-examined the gardener in a quiet, unconcerned way, that would have been the envy of an Old Bailey counsel. In very few minutes he had drawn out everything that the gardener had learned, and so insidiously soft were the operator’s words, that Brime found himself unconsciously inventing and supplying particulars that the barber stowed up in his brain cell, ready for future use.
“There, Mr Brime,” he said, after delivering the final upper strokes with a dexterity that was perfect, though thrilling, from the danger they suggested, “I think you will say, sir, that a good shave is not dear at the price.”
These last words were accompanied by little dabs with a wet sponge, to remove soapy patches among the thick whiskers, and then the towel was handed, and the victim walked to the glass.
“Yes, it does make a difference in a man,” he said, as he dabbed and dried.
“Difference, sir? It’s a duty to be clean-shaved. To a man, sir, speaking from years of experience, a beard is hair, natural hair. To a woman, sir, it is nothing of the kind. A woman cannot help it, sir; it is born in her, but to her, sir, a beard is simply dirt.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the gardener, and he thought deeply.
“Yes, sir; I’ve often heard them call it so. Even on the properest man, it is, in their eyes – dirt.”
Brime paid and took his departure, while Wimble plunged at once among his own dark thoughts.
“That man is blind as a mole,” he said, “and can see nothing which is not just before his eyes. He can dig a garden, but he cannot dig down into his own brain. How horrible! how strange! And how the slackest deeds will come out in a way nobody who is guilty suspects. Yesterday, quite a poor man – to-day, very rich – a heavy banking account – come in for a fortune. Yes, it’s all plain enough now. Now, ought I to do anything – and if so, what?”
Volume Three – Chapter Six.
Two Meetings
After a long stay within the walls of the Fort, Claude had yielded to her cousin’s importunity, and gone out.
She felt the truth of the French saying before she had gone a hundred yards from her gates. It was only the first step that cost, for, as she passed along the little row of houses facing the harbour, there was a smile from one, a look of glad recognition from another, and several of the rough fishermen who were hanging about waiting for signs of fish doffed their hats with a hearty “How do, miss?”
A thrill of pleasure ran through her, and a feeling of awakening as from a time of sloth, as she realised that life could not be passed as a time for mourning.
She turned to speak to Mary, after another or two of these friendly salutations to the lady of the Fort, and was met by a smile and a nod.
“There, I told you so, Claudie. It was quite time you came out. It was a duty.”
Claude felt her cheeks burn slightly as she noted the direction in which they were going, but she kept on, feeling truly that she would have felt the same whichever direction they had taken.
It was a glorious evening, with the sun turning the whole of the western sky to orange and gold; and, as she breathed in the soft elastic air, watched the brilliant shimmer of colour as of liquid flames at sea, she listened to the murmurs of the ripple among the boulders, where the little river ran swiftly down from the glen, and the twitter of the birds in birch and fir. The joyous sensation that filled her breast was painful, even to drawing tears.
It was to her like the first walk after a long illness, when there is a feeling akin to ecstasy, and life seems never to have been so beautiful before. She could not speak, but wandered on beside her cousin – over the bridge, where they paused to gaze down at the golden-amber water, sparkling and foaming on its way to the sea. Ever onward and up the glen, but not far before the sound of a large pebble, kicked by a heavy boot out into the rippling water, where it fell with a splash, told them that they were not alone, and the next minute Chris had overtaken them and held out his hand.
There was a look almost of reproach in Claude’s eyes, as, with quivering lip, she laid her hand in his, and yielded it, as he gently and reverently carried it to his lips.
“I have not been to you; I have not written,” he said, in a deep voice. “I felt that it was a duty to respect your sorrow. I have felt for you none the less deeply.”
She stood looking gravely in his eyes, and he went on —
“Under the painful circumstances, I could not come to you; I was driven from your side. But Claude, dearest,” he continued, with the passion within him making his words vibrate, as it were, in her breast, and her heart flutter as it had never beaten before. “I love you more clearly than ever; and listen, darling – I would not say it, but cruel words have been spoken about my mercenary thoughts.”
“Don’t, don’t,” she murmured.
“But one word – for your sake.”
“No, no,” she cried piteously.
“Then for mine,” he pleaded.
“What do you wish to say?”
“Then I am no longer the poor beggar I was called.”
“Chris!”
“But comparatively rich, love. I only said that so that those who would see evil in my acts may meet something to act as a shield to cast off these malicious darts. No, no, don’t withdraw your hand, dearest. I know how you have suffered. I have suffered too – sorrow for you – bitter jealousy of that man.”
“Chris,” she whispered, with a look of appeal, “for pity’s sake! I am weak and ill – I cannot bear it.”
“Forgive me,” he cried; “what a selfish brute I am! There, I hold your dear hand once more, and I am satisfied. I will not say another word, only go and wait patiently. My Claude cannot be anything but all that is kind and just to me. I’ll go and wait.”
She stood looking in his eyes, and he clasped her hand, while the soft, ruddy glow which struck right up the glen seemed to bathe them both in its warm light. Her lips moved to speak, but no sound came, though her eyes were full of joy and pride in the brave, manly young fellow whose words had thrilled her to the core.
“If it could have been,” she felt. And then a pang of agony shot through her, and she shuddered.
“How worn and thin you look, darling,” he said tenderly. “My poor, poor girl.”
This seemed to unloose the frozen words within her; the tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but it was too tightly held.
“Chris,” she said at last, and she clung to his hand as she spoke, “I do not doubt you. I know all you say is the simple truth, but it seems cruel to me now.”
“Cruel! My darling!”
“Hush, pray hush. It would be cruel, too, in me to let you speak like this about what can never, never be.”
“Claude! What are you saying?”
“That I have my poor father’s words still ringing in my ears. He forbade it, and I cannot go in opposition to his washes.”
“Claude!”
“I cannot help it. It is better that the words should be spoken now, and the pain be over. Chris, when we meet again it must be as friends.”
“No,” he cried passionately; “you must meet me as my promised wife.”
“It is impossible,” she said faintly, after a painful pause. “No, Chris, as my friend – brother, if you wish, but that is at an end.”
“But why – no, no; don’t answer me. You are ill and hysterical, dear. You think seriously of words that will grow fainter and of less import as the time goes on. There, come. Let us put all this aside now. I am content that we have met, and you know the truth – that I have spoken, and so plainly, once again.”
“No; you must hear me now,” she said with a sigh, that seemed to be torn from her breast.
“Well, then, speak,” he said, with a smile full of pity.
“Once more,” she said, after a pause; “you must never speak to me again as you have to-night.”
“Why?”
“You know, Chris, my father’s wish.”
“The result of a mistake. Claude, you love me.”
She made an effort once more to free herself, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
“Claude,” he cried passionately, “you will tell me that.”
“I cannot,” she said firmly.
He let her hand fall from between his, and a curiously heavy look came slowly into his face as the jealous anger within him began to seethe.
“You cast at me your father’s words,” he said hurriedly.
“I am obliged to remind you of his wish.”
“That you should marry this man, this Glyddyr. Claude, you cannot, you dare not tell me this.”
“I do not tell you this,” she said, quickly and excitedly. “No, that is impossible. I could not be his wife: I must not be yours.”
“You are speaking in riddles.”
“Riddles that you can easily read,” she said sadly. “Chris, my life is marked out for me. I have my duties waiting. I cannot, I will not marry a man I do not love, but I will not disobey my poor dead father and listen to you. Good-bye now – I can bear no more. Some day we can meet again patiently and calmly as in the happy old times.”
“Yes,” he said, with the angry feeling passing away, “I shall wait contented, for you will not marry this man – you promise me that?”
“Claude, dear; Claude.”
They had neither of them given Mary a thought, and she had discreetly walked away but to return now quickly, and as they raised their eyes it was to see her close at hand, and some fifty yards away Parry Glyddyr advancing fast.
Claude saw that Glyddyr looked white and strange, but it was the rage in Chris Lisle’s eyes which startled her, as Glyddyr strode up, with extended hand, ignoring the presence of her companion.
“Claude, don’t leave them alone, as there’ll be trouble,” whispered Mary, and her cousin’s words seemed to cast a lurid light upon the situation.
She did not give Glyddyr her hand, but turned to Chris and said gently —
“Good-bye. It will be better that we should not meet again – not yet.”
He took the hand gravely, let his own close over it in a firm, warm clasp, and released it silently.
“Mary.”